The sky isn't purple, but the light is. It's a nice, gentle kind of purple you wouldn't mind looking at before you die.
IN THE CLASSROOM AGAIN, 7: 34 A.M:
RAIN: Pitter patter.
LAPTOP: Whirr.
LAPTOP: Ding.
KEYBOARD: Tap, tap.
GRANT: Do you want to talk or something?
ME:
ME:
ME:
ME: Yeah.
And so we do.
- - - - -
So maybe we could be friends after all. Grant was nice. I enjoyed our conversations, and we cared about each other. He never said "Okay" when it wasn't.
LAST PERIOD ON THURSDAY, IN THE HALLWAY:
ME: Sob.
TEARS: PLIP.
HALLWAY: Squeak, tap.
GRANT: Ree-
GRANT:
GRANT:
GRANT: Are you-
GRANT:
GRANT:
GRANT: Okay?
I contemplate this for awhile. Some people would go:
Yes, I'm fine.
Or:
It's nothing.
But I don't want to lie as much as I don't want to be lied to.
ME: *Shakes head*
GRANT: Oh.
He sits down beside me and tentatively sets an arm around my shoulder. I stiffen before snuggling closer.
GRANT: * whispers* Let it out.
And I do.
YOU ARE READING
If You Will
Teen Fiction"every night, she would look up at the stars she could see, and pick the brightest star and give it a name. meanwhile, he would observe every single one of them, and give the brightest a name; her name." - anonymous.
